


Casualties

by Kira_Gold



Series: like you need it to survive [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (Alex is shot so), Based on a real historcial even apparently?, Canon Era, Everyone thinks Hamilton is dead, Happy Ending tho, I'd love this to be a real historical event, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8754532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kira_Gold/pseuds/Kira_Gold
Summary: Never trust Charles Lee when he gives mission reports. And especially never trust him regarding casualties. That John Laurens should've probably known earlier.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently this actually happened at some point in history? At least I hope that it is true, because I can totally imagine it. I'm not hella proud of this work, but hey, it is something. Hope you enjoy! :)

Casualties… happened. 

They were in the middle of a war, for God’s sake. A real war, with rifles, ships and cannons. They woke up to sounds of gunshots and fell asleep to moans of the wounded, they were covered in scars and bullet holes and they continued fighting despite it. 

Of course casualties happened. 

Laurens knew David. He was a nineteen-year-old lad, he was reckless and endlessly-enthusiastic, abnormally-amazing in his aim. He got shot on the frontline –– a fitting death, Hamilton said, hiding his eyes. A fitting death, Laurens had to agree. 

Laurens knew Hamish, a man slightly older then him, a brilliant doctor and a selfless person, John couldn’t keep count of how many times did he bandage his wounds. Hamish was shot as well, shot while trying to help a British soldier who was choking on his own blood. 

Laurens knew so many more people. People, who were now rotting corpses on the battlefield. 

God, he hated wars. 

Nobody deserved death. Maybe those assholes on the British side, Alex would argue every time, but John shook his head, looking down at the soggy ground. He would, of course, kill them if he had the chance. They would kill him. But he knew they didn’t deserve it – and they knew he didn’t either. 

“I understand why we fight,” he whispered to Alexander on the cold nights when everything was suspiciously calm and when he could only hope for a day of a respite. “Of course I understand why we fight. But then I see the blood, I see people dying around – and I can hardly remind myself that it is all for the greater reason.”

“I know,” Alex would reply. “I know, my dear Laurens.”

And they didn’t say anything else, but the silence conveyed the thoughts well enough. Alexander’s arms wrapped around him made John, if for a second, forget about the horrors of the war and the world outside the tent – and that was all and more he could’ve asked for. 

But – casualties happened. 

“Lieutenant colonel Laurens, His Excellency General Washington wants to see you!”, a boy reported, bursting into his tent, and John winced at the sound of his voice. He was young, painfully young, no older then sixteen, obviously recruited as a recent reinforcement, and used too many titles. He has not yet seen the horrors of a real battle, and God, how much would Laurens pay for it to stay that way. He was a _child_. Children shouldn’t fight wars. 

(Of course, nothing he could’ve given would have been enough.)

“Thank you,” he sighed, putting on his coat. “I’m coming.” 

“He… looked kind of upset,” the boy added hesitantly. “And Monsieur Lee was also in the tent at the time. Thought, um, thought I should let you know.”

“Of course he was,” John gritted his teeth. Charles Lee was by far his least favourite person in the whole damn army – and him and Washington together were never good news. “Thank you again. I’ll be there in a moment.” 

The world outside the tent was loud and chaotic, people running around, people talking and laughing almost hysterically, people knowing they could die tomorrow. Casualties were, after all, inescapable. General’s tent, on the other hand, met him with silence, warm air and heavy looks. Laurens looked around, just to notice – apart from Washington himself and Lee – Lafayette, Reed, McHenry and a surprising number of other recognizable faces. The General rarely assembled his aids-de-camp together, Laurens knew this well. This must have meant – this has usually meant – something _bad_. 

_(Pleasepleaseplease let everything be alright.)_

“Your Excellency,” John bowed anxiously. “Gentlemen,” another bow. “Am I… did something happen?” 

“Lee,” Washington ordered shortly, and his voice sounded so cold, Laurens couldn’t help but shiver. It wasn’t so much angry, as it was – distressed? Sad? Preoccupied? “Monsieur Laurens was the last man we were waiting for. Please, go on with your story.”

“General Washington, sir!” Charles protested. “You cannot expect _me_ to be th-the one to speak!” 

“On the contrary. You were there, Lee. You know what happened better than me. Please.” 

Washington had a rare talent of disguising commands to look like polite requests. Now though it wasn’t even that, just a blunt order. Speak, Lee. Don’t keep people waiting. 

“Okay, first of all I want to emphasize that none of what happened was my fault,” Lee began, clearing his throat. Lafayette, who has scooted closer to John after he entered the tent, snorted sarcastically, but Charles didn’t acknowledge it in any way. “As you, gentlemen, must know, myself and some troops have set out to New Jersey across the Hudson in the morning for the purpose of destroying provision we had in there so the British would not to get to it first.”

Some of the men in the tent, including Gilbert, have nodded in agreement, but it was the first John has heard about it. Washington, at whom Laurens threw a quick glance, was looking at the floor, his fists clenched. 

“Do you know what happened?” he whispered to Lafayette under his breath. “Washington seems worried.” 

“No offence, but Lee is literally telling the story right now, mon ami,” the man chuckled.

“Yes, but he will tell you all kinds of bullshit before he actually gets to the point,” Laurens snorted. “Just thought the General would tell you first.”

“Non, Reed was already here when I got to the tent and so was Lee, so– Oh!” Gilbert raised his finger, hushing his own words. “Seems like someone has finally decided to tell us what is he on about.” 

“Basically, we weren’t expecting them,” Lee blabbered meanwhile. “They just… showed up, red coats, rifles in their hands… We had to run. We had to leave certain people behind to get out in time. There were… casualties.”

Of course, John smirked bitterly, the word plaguing his thoughts. We’re in the middle of the war, Lee. Of course there were casualties. 

“Among those casualties – may I assure you, to my greatest sorrow – was a man most of you know. He… he wasn’t meant to be a part of operation, but he… followed us, if I can word it that way. Unfortunately he was one of the people we had to aban– retreat without.” Lee’s hands were fidgeting as he spoke, and it was obvious he tried evading the point. However, when Washington finally looked up, giving him an exhausted look, Charles bit his lip and threw his arms up. “Fine, I’ll just say it outright, whatever. The, the man’s name, as I have already informed His Excellency, his name was Alexander Hamilton.”

Lafayette hands wrapped around John’s wrists before the words even settled down in his mind, before the tent exploded with hushed whispers and before Washington gritted his teeth angrily. And when Laurens has finally understood – when the name filled his mind with a quiet familiar buzz, when he tried lunging forward, getting out his gun, when he tried hitting this _bastard_ in the jaw or bashing his head against the corner wooden table, Gilbert already held his hands in a tight grip, his own face distorted with anger. 

“Lafayette, you fucking traitor, let me go!” John yelled, barely acknowledging that he is, in fact, yelling, and Washington immediately turned to him with a heavy gaze. 

“Gi– Monsieur Lafayette, do you want to–” the General waved his hand at the exit from the tent, not finishing the sentence. His aids-de-camp shared sympathetic looks as Gilbert indeed dragged John to the entrance. 

“Laf, no fuck, Lee, Lee, I’m going to slit your throat, you hear? I’m gonna kill you, I will fucking shoot you, I– How could you leave him behind?! Knowing who he is, knowing we _need_ him, I’m going to kill you, I swear, I!” Laurens screamed, his throat burning, trying to push Lafayette aside and clutch his own fingers around Charles’ throat. However, Gil was always a tad stronger, and when he yanked him away from the tent, finally letting go, Laurens could swear his wrists were going to have bruises on them. Could have sworn, if he cared at all. 

“John,” Gilbert begun, his eyes shut, his body as tense as ever. “I, I understand you, I promise. But… Not in front of the whole assembly. You can’t just kill Lee in front of the General, although that motherfucker, he deserves it more than anyone, he – but Alexander wouldn’t have wanted you to get in trouble over him.”

And it wasn’t long enough from the moment they have heard the news to make the “he wouldn’t like it” argument. And Laurens, who knew Hamilton a little too well, knew that Lafayette was at least wrong – Alex always wanted someone to if not murder Lee, then to at least break his ribs. 

But before, Laurens had only _understood_ what was said. 

Now, as they were out of the surreal of the tent, now that the cold air has wrapped its sticky arms around them, the understanding has finally _settled_. 

John collapsed on his knees in the middle of the camp, with people still scurrying back and forth and giving him intrigued gazes, with the hard ground under his feet, with his fingers digging into his palms a little bit too hard. He didn’t care. 

_Alexander Hamilton is dead, Hamilton is dead, Alex is dead, my Alex is dead, he is dead, deaddeaddeaddeaddead–_

Tears felt… unnatural. 

Laurens hasn’t cried once since the start of the revolution, but now, when Lafayette collapsed next to him, his arms wrapping around John’s trembling shoulders, when nothing in the world mattered apart from the word “dead” pulsating in his mind, when the wind suddenly turned ice-cold, now he lifted up his head, screaming desperately on top of his lungs, screaming that it is unfair, that he didn’t deserve it, that _he_ should have died instead of Alex, and tears rolled down his face, leaving tracks on the cheeks covered in soot. Lafayette, while still holding him in his arms, was also sobbing hysterically, but–

_He has no rights, he wasn’t as close to Alex as me, he has no rights, he is a fucking traitor, he didn’t let me fight Lee, he–_

Lafayette was not at all important right now. 

Hamilton was. 

Dead. 

\- - - -

John didn’t know how long did he and Gilbert spent lying in the dust outside the General’s tent, but it just wasn’t enough time. Not enough time to believe in the reality of what’s happening, not enough time to _accept_ – of course it wasn’t, Laurens doubted there will _ever_ be enough time to accept this –, but Lafayette got up, pulling him to his legs as well, and John had to at least try to keep stable. 

“What now?” he whispered dully, his voice hoarse and trembling. 

“We should probably go back in,” Gilbert looked away, nodding at Washington’s tent, his voice just as broken. “I mean, I realise you don’t want to exactly – believe me, neither do I – but…”

“What _now_?” John repeated with an insincere, forced laugh. “Not now-now. Just… generally.” 

“We’ll figure it out,” Lafayette sighed quietly, and John wanted to scream to his face that _at least you have Washington, at least he did not get killed because of someone’s cowardice_ – but instead, he just nodded slowly and followed Gilbert back to the place they’ve stormed out of. John wanted to scrape his own eyes out not to see the people inside, but instead he was forced to look them in the faces. John wanted to run away, but instead he slowly sat on a vacant chair behind a big table in the tent, all of the gazes focused on him. 

“Laurens, son,” Washington said. John didn’t notice when did the General come up to him, but he didn’t even bother looking up, just tilted his head slightly. “I’m sorry.” 

Laurens shut his eyes, nodding slowly, acknowledging the words, but not replying still. The General sighed, biting his lip, but did not continue speaking, and he was grateful for that. Lafayette sat down in the chair near John, pouring a glass of red wine and passing it to him, and no matter how fucked up seemed the idea of drinking at this time, Laurens had to accept. He needed wine right now. Or whiskey. Or a bullet to the head. 

John didn’t know how long did he spend in the tent because his mind seemed rather unable to register time, but no matter how many glasses did he drink, his thoughts still stayed perfectly clear, and he hated it. The bullet seemed like a better decision with each passing minute, and when Lafayette turned to a man sitting on his left, distracted, somehow able to _talk_ , John almost wrapped his fingers around the grip of his pistol.

And then there was some rustling outside the tent, someone arguing loudly, someone demanding to let him through, and before Washington even had a chance to stand up and go check what on earth is going on, a man burst in through the entrance. He was dripping wet and limping, his hair in an absolute mess. His leg was covered in blood from an obvious gunshot and his coat had more tears in it then empty bottles on their table. John hardly payed attention to any of that. 

Most importantly, this man was Alexander Hamilton. 

Laurens felt like he was dreaming again, like the surreal caught up to him once more, but if it was indeed a dream, he’d rather never wake up, he thought, letting go of the gun. 

In complete silence Hamilton – _alive, alive, alive_ – marched up to the middle of the table, slamming his hands onto a wooden surface. 

“Lee, you absolute motherfucker!” he yelled, and it was so like Alex, John could cry if he wasn’t already. Lafayette grabbed his arm yet again and Laurens didn’t even try struggling free – it wasn’t important right now. “You– You, I can’t believe it! You ran off like a coward, although what am I saying, you _are_ a coward, that was never a topic in question in the first place, but – my men _died_ because of you! Two people, Lee! And we have three more severely wounded, and then we had to fucking _swim_ across the Hudson, because you took the damn boat, and wow, I knew you aren’t of any help to the army, but I would’ve at least expected you to have some fucking sense and not abandon you own allies in–”

“Hamilton,” Washington interrupted, his voice so hoarse and full of _disbelief_ that John would’ve laughed if he could. Instead he just sobbed chokingly. 

Alex straightened up, trying not to lean on his wounded leg too much, and looked at the General guiltily and yet still accusingly at the same time. 

“Sir, I’m sorry, but like– Lee deserves it, sir! He just left us behind like– wait, I bet the fucker didn’t even tell you the whole story, right? He probably just held off some details which–”

“He told us you were dead, Hamilton.”

“Exactly! He is a goddamn liar who– wait. What?” Alex’ expression suddenly went blank as Washington’s words have finally caught up with him. “He told you I was– He– Wait, did everyone in here think I– _Wait_ , were you drinking to my memory?! Sir?!”

“We were told you were dead, Hamilton,” the General repeated again, his words hollow. “Lee, how will you explain this?”

“Your Excellency, sir, I didn’t know…” Charles rambled, his face deadly-pale with terror, and Laurens would have found it amusing if his mind wasn’t too focused on Alexander. 

Alive. 

In front of him. 

He sobbed again, this time louder, and in complete silence of the other men of course he was heard. Alexander spun around, hissing because of the pain in the leg, and covered his mouth. 

“Shit. Laurens.”

“Hamilton,” John whispered shakily. 

Washington stood up quickly, coming up to Alexander and giving him a quick hug. Alex winced for a second, not expecting that, trying not to ruin his General’s uniform with his own blood, but after a second he smiled hesitantly, relaxing his shoulders. Washington straightened up again.

“Everyone, out,” he ordered. “Seems like our little assembly was unnecessary. Monsieur Laurens, Monsieur Lafayette, take Alexander to the infirmary. Lee, stay.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency.” Alex nodded and then pouted quieter, noticing an ice-cold gaze the General has been giving Charles: “Well, at least that bastard will get what he deserves.” Then he slowly turned back to his assigned companions, trying to balance on one foot. “So. Gil. John. Sorry for this, I guess.”

John grabbed his hand and almost dragged Alex out of the tent, Lafayette following them with occasional relieved and tipsy chuckles. When they were finally outside, the Marquis leaned forward, hugging Alexander, and then grinned:

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess. I believe you two won’t get lost on the way to the doctor’s?”

“Probably not,” Hamilton snickered. “Thanks, Laf. See you later.”

“You better!” Gilbert smirked before turning to one of the soldiers nearby with some question. Alexander looked at Laurens with uncertainty in his eyes. 

“So,” he said again. “John.” 

And then Laurens lunged forward, his brain chanting “He is wounded, you can hurt him, at least let him get bandaged first,” and his heart ignoring every single word of that. He knocked Alexander to the ground, wrapping his arms around his neck as they fell, and hid his face in his still soaking-wet coat (at least the tears won’t be as noticeable). 

John found himself unable to speak, although if he could he would have yelled something like “Don’t you fucking dare do this again, I’m probably just going to strangle you myself if you try doing something similar, thank god you’re alright, I love you, I love you, I love you…” – but it seemed Alexander understood him even without words. He held John closer to his chest, whispering something meaningless in his ear, and Laurens couldn’t help but feel like any other time he was in Alexander Hamilton’s arms. 

Safe. 

Yes, they were in the middle of the war, and yes, casualties happened. But as long as neither of them are on the long list of the dead, they will get through it. 

“Well,” he whispered after a couple of minutes, his voice cracking on the word, but full of such happiness that everything in the world around them drowned in it. “How about we actually get you to the doctor? Don’t want Lafayette to think we could’ve actually gotten lost.”

And Hamilton’s laughter as he helped John up from the ground was worth more than absolutely anything on this planet.


End file.
